


One Carves a Cross

by coricomile



Series: here i blur into you [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Edgeplay, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knife isn’t elaborate or showy. Patrick always vetoed Pete’s suggestions for fancy, expensive ones with intricate designs. It’s a shiny silver curve, only four or five inches long, with cutouts for Patrick’s fingers in the handle. Next to the thin, neat butterfly knife and the short paring knife, it looks absolutely giant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Carves a Cross

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkangel0410](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel0410/gifts).



“Word?” Patrick asks, even as he drapes the couch in plastic. His bare feet squeak a little over the hardwood as he moves around. 

“Hamlet,” Pete sighs. It’s been his word since they started this thing, but Patrick asks him before every scene he’s uncomfortable about. Like Pete’s going to forget. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“Sit there and drink your tea,” Patrick says. He narrows his eyes at Pete’s untouched cup until Pete does as he’s told. Pete takes a sip of the tea- something fruity and sweet and just warm enough to be the way he likes it- and watches Patrick tape the plastic down. When the couch is shiny and trapped completely, he moves on to the side table. 

Sometimes, Pete wonders where Patrick’s learned everything from. It’s not like they can just go to a dungeon and hang out with the other deviants. He’ll have to check Patrick’s browser history when he isn’t looking. He loves a good surprise, but he also loves the anticipation of knowing what’s coming. 

When he’s almost finished his cup of tea, Patrick hauls his big black bag of toys out and sets it on the couch. Pete swallows down his anticipation as Patrick lays out three knives next to each other. He’s seen two of the three before, but the third one is brand new. 

“Go on,” Patrick says, even as he keeps going through his bag. Rubbing alcohol, a box of gloves, and gauze join the knives on the table. “Look at it. No touching.”

Pete scrambles up to the table and bends over it. The urge to touch is almost impossible to ignore, but he tucks his hands into his pockets and fights it. If he grabs, Patrick will actually call off the scene. 

The knife isn’t elaborate or showy. Patrick always vetoed Pete’s suggestions for fancy, expensive ones with intricate designs. It’s a shiny silver curve, only four or five inches long, with cutouts for Patrick’s fingers in the handle. Next to the thin, neat butterfly knife and the short paring knife, it looks absolutely giant. 

“Dude, when did you even have time to buy this thing?” Pete asks. He wants to pick it up to see if it’s as heavy as it looks, but he keeps his hands to himself. 

“Are you ready?” Patrick asks. He’s stripped off his shirt and pulled on a set of shiny black gloves. Christ, he’s hot. 

“You have no idea,” Pete says. He really, really is. Patrick grabs him around the neck and pulls him in, kissing him hard and dirty. Pete groans when Patrick pulls him away and pushes him onto the couch. The plastic sticks to his thighs and his arms. 

“On your knees,” Patrick says. Pete scrambles up, pressing his knees between the cushions and folding himself over the back of the couch. His wifebeater twists a little under his arms, uncomfortable against his skin, but he doesn’t reach to move it. It’s not going to be a problem for long. “You will not talk and you will not move. Do you understand?”

Pete holds himself perfectly still. It’s the right answer. 

Patrick puts a warm hand on his back, steadying himself as he reaches toward the table. Pete can’t see it the way he’s bent, which he knows is intentional. His breath catches in his throat as Patrick straightens up and presses the cool, thin blade of the butterfly knife against his bicep.

He draws a long line down Pete’s arm and back up again, slow and sure. It leaves a thin white line behind that fades almost immediately. Pete’s heart speeds up. He wants to move his head to better watch the slow slide across his chest, but he can’t. He sucks in a sharp breath when the tip of the blade slips under the strap of his shirt. 

“Let’s get rid of this,” Patrick says, soft and low next to Pete’s ear. His free hand slides into Pete’s hair and jerk his head to the side. Pete’s scalp stings, burning as Patrick keeps the tension on his hair. With a quick, easy jerk of the blade, the strap gives. 

The blade sits against Pete’s skin, the flat edge sliding against him as Patrick cuts his shirt apart from shoulder to hem. The knife isn’t sharp enough to go through the thick fold at the bottom of his shirt, but Patrick rips it apart with one hand. Cool air skims across his back as Patrick pushes the wreckage of his shirt to the side. 

Pete hears the changeover of knives, the soft click of the butterfly knife closing and being replaced. Patrick shows him the paring knife, small but sharp. His thumb rides the dull edge of the blade, almost as long as it. Slowly, he presses it to Pete’s collar bone. 

“Does this turn you on?” Patrick asks, all hot breath and slick lips against Pete’s bare shoulder. The hand in Pete’s hair tucks itself between his hips and the couch. Pete jerks, just a little, when Patrick grabs his dick. The knife presses dangerously against his collarbone. “Look at this.” Patrick squeezes him again, and Pete moans. He’s hard, more adrenaline than arousal, but that’s quickly changing. “You’ll get off on anything, won’t you?”

Pete moans again, wanton and just a little outside the rules. He holds his breath when the tip of the knife crosses from his collar to his throat. The rush of blood in his ears blocks out the sound of Patrick’s breathing, blocks out the feel of Patrick pressed tight to his back, holding him in place. 

Everything narrows down to that tiny point on his skin. He bites his tongue as the knife slides up, tracing over his adams apple. If he moved right now, if Patrick slipped, everything could be over in a second. It should make him ashamed how hard that makes him. Patrick draws slow criss crosses under his chin, runs the flat over his jaw. The sound of it against his stubble is so, so loud. 

“I’m going to hurt you,” Patrick says as he sets the paring knife down. He kisses the curve of Pete’s neck and then bites down. Pete melts against him. He wants Patrick to leave marks, to leave his name carved into his skin literally. 

Patrick moves away from him. Everything feels cold without him there. He rips the other strap of Pete’s wifebeater and pulls it off him. Pete struggles to stay on his knees. He’s sweating, even though he hasn’t moved. 

Patrick jerks his arms behind his back, the pull in Pete’s shoulders enough to keep him focused. He won’t be able to stay that way long, but right now the strain is keeping him grounded. Patrick ties his ruined shirt around his wrists, and tugs. 

Pete goes where he wants him to, laying back against the couch. His trapped arms are already beginning to ache. Patrick takes the alcohol from the table and pours some on to a clean towel. The smell is overpowering. Pete flinches when Patrick wipes it across his chest. It’s cold, even against the warmth of Patrick’s hands. Patrick switches gloves, the sterile rubber smell like a hospital. When he slides his fingers into the handle of the new knife, it squeaks. 

“I bought this in New Orleans,” Patrick says, squatting in front of the couch. He turns the blade over in front of Pete, holding it close to his face. The blade shines under the fluorescents. “The man that made it was a fifth generation blacksmith. I watched him hammer out this edge.” Patrick holds his arm up and slides the blade over his skin. Pete swallows as he sees the fine blonde hairs there fall away. Patrick smiles widely. It’s dangerous and gorgeous. “And now I’m going to watch it cut you up.”

Pete takes a shallow breath. Christ, Patrick like this drives him crazy.

Patrick touches the tip of the blade to Pete’s nipple, barely there pressure that makes Pete’s heart stutter in his chest. When he drags the knife over Pete’s chest, the skin breaks cleanly. A thin, short line of blood wells up. Patrick slides the tip of the knife through it and draws a small circle with it. 

He cuts Pete across his rib, a long shallow line that feels more like a paper cut. The knife is so sharp he barely has to press down. Pete opens his mouth and takes in short, sharp breaths. He’s so tense, his muscles screaming as he tightens them. He knows that Patrick would never really hurt him, but the idea that he could… it makes him breathless. 

Patrick’s gloved hand rubs over the wound, spreading his blood up over his chest in four small lines. The latex feels foreign and sticky on him, warm. He watches Patrick play, balling his fists behind his back. He feels dizzy in the best kind of way. 

“What do you want Pete?” Patrick asks. He presses on the cut on Pete’s chest gently, forcing more blood out. It’s thin, the cut too shallow to really bleed, but the color is striking. 

“A scar,” Pete says. He groans when Patrick presses down harder. He’s not really turned on anymore, too hypersensitive, but the look Patrick gives him feels like fire in his veins. “Please.”

“A small one,” Patrick says, because he _knows_ Pete wants one that takes up all of him. “Breathe deep.” Pete does as he’s told, eyes locked on the knife. His arms are screaming. Patrick touches the knife to Pete’s chest, right under the the thorns. “Out, slowly. This is going to hurt.”

Pete tries to breathe out slow, but as soon as the knife slices into his skin, he gasps. It hurts, way deeper than the others, even if it is brief. Blood wells up and dips over when Patrick pulls the knife away. Fast, focused, Patrick grabs a wad of gauze from the table and presses it to the wound. 

“So good for me, Pete,” Patrick says softly. He holds the gauze there, the pressure a steady pain. “So good. Can you sit up?” Pete struggles his way into sitting, his skin squeaking against the plastic. He feels lightheaded, floating away on the steady coo of Patrick’s voice. “Stay still for me, babe. One more second.” 

Pete’s hands tingle as Patrick cuts away the shirt tying them together. It slides onto the floor, nothing but a scrap of fabric. Patrick rubs at his wrists with gentle fingers until the tingles go away. 

“Can you hold this for me?” Patrick asks. He guides Pete’s hand to the gauze and presses it there, until he’s sure Pete’s got a hold on it. “Nice, even pressure, okay?” Pete nods. He likes to think he can feel his heart beating under his fingers. 

Patrick pulls tape from his bag and pulls down the alcohol and gauze again. He cleans the smaller scrapes first, blowing gently on them when Pete hisses at the burn. He tapes gauze over both of them, even though Pete’s pretty sure they don’t need it. 

“Let me see,” Patrick says, and pulls Pete’s hand away. The cut is only an inch long, but it’s bleeding steadily. Pete can’t stop looking at it. It’s beautiful. “So good, Pete. Thank you.” Patrick kisses the space above the cut. 

It hurts when he wipes the area clean, but Pete doesn’t say anything about it. The sting is nothing compared to the way Patrick’s watching him. Patrick carefully tapes him up, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. When he’s satisfied with the patch job, he presses a kiss over the gauze. 

“Holy shit,” Pete says when Patrick pulls away. He leans back against the back of the couch and stretches his arms across his chest. His shoulders are going to kill him all day, but it was so, so worth it. “Holy shit.” Patrick discards his gloves and caps the alcohol. There’s a bit on blood on his bare wrist that Pete can’t stop staring at. 

“Lay down,” Patrick says. He waits until Pete’s on his side, tucked up against the back, and then joins him. The couch is just wide enough for both of them if they lay pressed together. Pete presses into the warm, smooth skin of Patrick’s chest and lets himself be held. 

“Thank you,” he says. Patrick’s skin tastes salty against his lips. 

“You’re welcome.” Patrick strokes his side, his back. His heartbeat is a steady rhythm next to Pete’s ear. “You were so good, Pete. I knew you would be.” It never stops sounding a little silly, but it still makes something warm blossom under Pete’s ribcage. He rubs Pete’s hip with a thumb and slides his fingers into the waist of his shorts.

Pete’s still half-hard, the adrenaline gone but the low hum of arousal still sitting under his skin. He wants to press up against Patrick, maybe fuck him, but he doesn’t want to disrupt the easy, warm way they’re held together.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” Patrick says, and presses the flat of his palm against Pete’s dick. Pete laughs. Like he’d ever tell Patrick to stop.

Patrick jerks him off, slow, long strokes that make Pete shiver. He kisses Pete’s forehead, his jaw. Pete groans against Patrick’s shoulder and rocks into his hand. It’s a little dry, the angle a little awkward, but Patrick knows the right amount of pressure and the right speed to drive him crazy.

“I want you to come for me, babe,” Patrick says, barely a whisper. He squeezes Pete’s cock, rough enough to make Pete whine. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

Pete wraps his fingers around Patrick’s bicep and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s so close. Patrick jerks him faster, tighter. He presses his shoulder into the gauze on Pete’s chest and Pete comes with a choked off whine. It’s more like a sucker punch. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, pulling his hand from Pete’s boxers. He wipes it off on Pete’s shorts and pulls him closer. “Yeah.”

Pete closes his eyes and thinks about the scar that’s going to form, thin and secret and just for them. He can’t wait.


End file.
